Friday, October 29, 2004

At the stroke of Midnight (more or less) under a full moon (more or less) The Red Demon breathed what might just be its last breath at the mouth of the 110 freeway in Pasadena, California, USA.

I offer up this epitaph, which was one of the first bits of prose ever to grace the Genitals site, back in the Borrego Days of Yesteryear.

It fared with her as with the storm-tossed ship, that miserably drives along the leeward land.

Know ye, now, the Red Demon?

Glimpses do ye seem to see fo that mortally intolerable truth; that all deep, earnest thinking is but the intrepid effort of the soul to keep the open independence of her sea; while the wildest winds of heaven and earth conspire to cast her on the treacherous, slavish shore?

But as in landlessness alone resides the highest truth, shoreless, indefinite as God -- so, better is it to perish in that howling infinite, than be gloriously dashed upon the lee, even if that were safety!

For worm-like, then, oh! who would craven crawl to land! Terrors of the terrible! Is all this agony so vain?

Monday, October 18, 2004

it's a crazy little posse we've got forming. growing in numbers. united in a feeling that can't even be put into words but we signify it by pointing to the banner flying with the L-O-V-E in biggun letters made of that gooey stuff that is pumpin' through your guts just after you hang up the phone with the one you're really feeeeeeeeeeeeeeelin' it with, at the moment. whomever they may be, on that day, at that time, in that instant.

i once fell in love with a man riding a bike up a hill on a hot day, simply for the effort he was exerting. i love effort. i love the effortless, too. but shit on a sandwich, do i ever love effort. right effort. right thought. right practice. in a world without right and wrong. how completely audacious!

it is hard for me to make a sentence go in any one direction. luckily... when reading (in the english language, and a few others) we move our eyes from left to right, top to bottom, and follow the phrase withersoever it goes. (e e cummings had some other ideas) however, the instinct of the masses remains. the hoi polloi, in general, reads LEFT to RIGHT.

when listening to another speak -- save for flights of fancy, blank spots, possible drug interference and intentional or unintentional ignoring -- we listen as we live, in real time, experiencing linearity, following the narrative, abstract though the subject matter may be, withersoever it leads.

all i ask on this night like any other night is the courage to follow, withersoever thou leadest my aching frame, to heed the call of adventure, wheneversoever it heralds, and to love. dear god, to love. to cultivate the unconditional giving of self to thy chillin's and plebs. thy hoodlums and wackos. thy dejected, rejected, snotty and shitfaced. oh lord, sweet lord, daddy of the sugars, momma of the chickens, sister of the lovesick, brother of the bigness, cousin of the unconscious, uncle of the uglynasties, friend of the faithless, lover of all things just as they are and however they may want to be... give it up. give it up to us like a 5am jackpot after a long night of pullin' dry on the one armed bandit.

i can see it. it's already happening. it's as ridiculous and pathetic and gorgeous as it can be. the love is raining down, everywhere i'm looking. the sky is fucking falling and it's about time. the rain is helping it all soak in.

Sunday, October 17, 2004

today is one of those days.

an entire day has been wasted. or, rather, i spent a lovely day with my boyfriend. it rained. or, more specifically, it rained on my car. my car that has no roof. my boyfriend let me drive his car home, so i wouldn't get rained on. i cried in the car on the way home... i'm not sure why. it had something to do with the temporary sensation of the unfairness of all things and the fact that i can't seem to ever be sufficiently "honest" for my own rigorous quality standards. time. money. space. perception. the haves and have nots. the hard and the easy. the simple and the complicated. the simple hard and the easy complicated. the utter unknowability of anyone. diseases and treatments and treatments that are worse than the diseases themselves. i am tired. soooo tired.

i've been having one of those fish-bone jammed in the throat feelings every night lately, or at least on the nights when the boyfriend is in the bed with me. i find myself wanting to tell him that i love him, and the wanting to tell him that i love him makes me feel like i'm choking on a fish bone. (understand, he already knows, see... it is not the big "reveal" that i am speaking of here, but simply the g'night & g'bye chattering relish and repetition of the sentiment)

so, what exactly is it about the saying and repeating and assuring and vocalizing of the love pledge that i seem to think is so necessary and/or important? (not necessary enough to actually say it, though, just wanting to want to enough to choke on the bone and NOT saying it, thereby, one would hope, relieving myself of the affliction of both the bone AND the desire to say it in one simple utterance) who am i trying to convince? who is in need of these vocal cues and assurances?

simple? hard? easy? complicated?

where choking is involved, fear tain't far behind. i think confusius said that.

Tuesday, October 12, 2004

I live in a world of pain. I ain't talkin' about the ills of the world and mass psychic human suffering, neither. i mean straight up, in my body, aching burning crippling fucking PAIN on the 24/7 and it just don't stop for nothin'. Save for a hump. In the midst of a hump, it's a pain-free zone. Or at least something powerful enough is happening that I am not tuned into the constant hurting. At work... it hurts. Even when I sleep... it hurts. Sometimes when I'm driving, the frosty bites of my topless vehicle hurling down the freeway and the lack of safety and guarantees on the freeways of Los Angeles are sufficient to over-ride the ache. Sometimes when I'm deep in thought or laughing really hard, it spares me from the act of feeeeeeeeeeeeeeling. For a bit. But then it comes back. The hot coals in the shoulder. The baseball-bat cross the upper-back. The chronic migrane. The calf-muscle ever-threatening to seizure in a full-blown Charley-horse. This is the frame I live in. This is the body that I beat senseless for 29 years. I am neither surprised nor resentful. More than anything, I am amazed that it has held together so well. A sigh of gratitude and a stretch. Bones crack and the neverending flame burns on. I hurt.

Monday, October 11, 2004

Well... That party last night was something special. Alana (aka Rev Mindy Chiu) did it up right at the Hotel Cafe and laid down a spread of good eats on which even my pre-show jitters couldn't deny me some good-time chewin' and grubbin'. I ate. I wore a dress. I was wrapped in silver with a tiara on top. Lisa tried to put fake eyelashes on me, but glued my eyelids together and one of 'em kept curling up on the edges, so no falsey bat-bats for me. Don't fret... I was still wearing the flippity flops. Ya don't stop.

Douglas Kearney hosed us all down with fire and brimstone from his flapping hip-happening lips of action. The man is a poet. Fascinoma tore it up. The addition of a bassist has catapulted them into some seriously rockin' terrain.

I'm digging the little big family we've got growing up around us. Everywhere we go, it gets more and more home-like. That's the trick with having a posse. Rather than rely on Fast Food Restaurants and Strip Malls to make us feel at home, wherever we roam, we just keep doin' shows with familiar folks. And the family is growing and growing, good vibes a'flowin'.

Please forgive the mad rhyming. Doug Kearney put the music in me.

Next up The Derby, Greatest Hits Show. 11pm on a Friday Night. That's a hot ticket. There ain't no buddy bands on this card, neither... so we're depending on the friends and family to show up, fill the rug, sing along, and help up warm our newest home away from home away from home... the world famous, movie-magic, built by Cecil B Demille (you can thank brett for that trivia-bit) DERBY. We're taking requests for this one... so bring 'em on. Tell us the show you'd like to see. Let it be. Set yourself free. Give it to me. What up, g?

Friday, October 08, 2004

so... i'm a bad web writer. i admit it. i don't have the flow. the consistency. there was a time in my life, not too long ago, that every little thing that happened was immediately filtered into cyber-space. the reach, scope, readership, interactivity excited me. i had cyber-friends, cyber-chats, cyber-love affairs, cyber-plots and counter plots. it was exciting. and what happened? the well ran dry. it stopped working. the "reality" (as opposed to the virtual-reality) of it all hit me. whilst my mind and fingertips were engaging in all sorts of relations, my body... this shell, this vessel of fleshy meaty goodness that "I" lives in was just sitting around getting headaches and backaches, staring into the glowing void. it depressed me. my inner hippie started its lonesome revolt, attempting to rouse the support of my legs and arm, lungs and eyes, demanding a return to some sort of "nature"... demanding fresh air, exercise, liberation.

it's a slow process, recovery. i get out sometimes. it's still necessary to put in some time with the beast. to make some money, pay some bills, answer some emails, check some links, spread some news.

i wonder if my back and shoulder and head and legs didn't hurt so bad.... would I stay in more or go out more?

i got love for the beast. no doubt. welcome to high tech. reach per millions. the world wide web.

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About Me

My name is Juli and I'm the lead singer of the Evangenitals. I am also the "June Carter" to the world's premier Johnny Cash tribute band Cash'd Out. I am a Vegan and I am pretty damn happy to be alive. I've got a MFA in Directing experimental theater and I'm working on my PhD in Philosophy. I'm an ordained minister of the ULC and I believe in the power of Now, and the power of Love, and the power of Music. I believe in the spiritual revolution and I'm already marching.
P.S.
I believe in you.
Seriously.
And I love you, too.